


cling tight to caution

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Implied Femslash, Introspection, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7088893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So what is it you want?” Josephine’s arms cross and she thinks, <i>be severe. This is Leliana. She will walk all over you if you give her an inch</i>. Not that, admittedly, Josephine has ever <i>minded</i> Leliana’s penchant for drawing Josephine into her shenanigans. But she can never, never let Leliana in on this fact. She would abuse it terribly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cling tight to caution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiraMira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/gifts).



There is no compare to the appointments given to an ambassador working and living in Val Royeaux; they are beautiful and sumptuous beyond the telling of it. Satin drapes in the summer, velvet in the winter. Purple and silver and gold finery from ceiling to floor. Candles delicately scented in the latest, most favored oils—candied elfroot, at the moment, both sweet and astringent, entirely in keeping with the Orlesian aristocracy’s tastes, manners, and beliefs. The most exquisite foods are yours for the eating.

Josephine wants for nothing.

And yet her heart squeezes with longing for another apartment, an apartment far from here. _Home_. She could relocate to the Winter Palace itself and she wouldn’t prefer it to the view from her rooms in Antiva City.

Perhaps if it wasn’t so lonely.

Perhaps if it wasn’t the same nonsense day after day after day.

Perhaps. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

 _Perhaps_ , she thinks, not a little disgusted with herself, _you ought to do more than bemoan your life here. There are many who would die for this opportunity._

_And many who would kill._

_Who… have killed_.

But Josephine doesn’t let herself think about that. The harsh truth of it all is she can’t imagine being anywhere else. Even going back to Antiva seems—a distant dream. A way to pass the time. A fond memory to go with a warm, spiced wine on a cool evening. And she knows, when she does return home, it will be to fulfill her duties to her family. Important, but not necessarily anything she need feel nostalgic for already. In time, in fact, it may be that those responsibilities will make her long again for Val Royeaux. A nasty predicament that may well be.

This, now, should be enough. Her life is more than she ever thought it would be. Her talents and training serve her country and she is _good_ at what she does. Spectacular, even.

It _is_ enough.

Most days.

And others… she is forcibly reminded of just how boring the goings on in Orlais can be. She knows every person, every way they will jump and squeal and sneak about. There is no politician, no merchant, no member of the royal family who can outplay her. No bard sneaks into her home late into the night to lay a trap or issue a threat or try to catch her in a compromised position, a not uncommon occurrence among many others in the aristocratic classes.

That is to say—no bard has ever before snuck into her house to do any of these things until now.

It is easy to spot in the unfamiliar indentations in the cushions of the canapé, in the unsettling ghost of boot prints in the rug, in the breath of laurels on the air—a perfume that has been out of vogue for quite some time.

Her interloper is sloppy. And because of this, Josephine cannot work up a sense of fear on her own behalf. Once, it might have curled under her skin, the sense that another has been in her residence. It might have buzzed against her awareness, crept into her psyche. It might have scared her.

Her eyes roll as she pats herself down, the sash tied around her waist hiding her sheathed knife, her constant companion. She does not pull it free and instead walks through her receiving room, loose-limbed. Idly, she wonders how green this individual is and whether she might turn them to her side. The possibility that she will have to maim someone tonight is not one she relishes. Especially not if that someone is young or new to the Game or—most likely—both.

Words rarely fail her, her faith in them a learned constant—but that is not to say there cannot be a first time for everything. She is ready if words are not enough.

“You are—” she says, stepping into the dark recesses of the kitchen. Candlelight flickers and catches on striking red hair, a pink-lipped smile, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Leliana! What are you doing here?”

She sits atop the counter upon which Josephine occasionally cooks her meals—and occasionally hires others to cook for her—her legs swinging against the elegantly carved hardwood panels that hold it up. In such an interesting pose, it’s no wonder she doesn’t look any older than the last time Josephine had seen her. “Can I not come for a visit, Josie?” she asks, her voice as light and sweet as ever. Mostly as light and sweet as ever, that is to say. There is a decided… undertone that Josephine is not sure she likes the sound of. “Perhaps I have missed you.”

“And perhaps you have not,” Josie—no, _Josephine_ replies, adopting a voice of cold steel, not a little annoyed that inside of a minute Leliana has gotten her thinking of herself in endearments. And not for the first time.

“You make a most unfair assessment of me.” Leliana slides, inelegant, from the counter. Josephine doesn’t let herself hope she has stained her trousers. Not least because Josephine would be appalled to know one of her countertops could do such a thing. “I resent it greatly.”

 _You do not_. “I could have hurt you,” she says instead, pushing herself up against the nearest wall as Leliana strides toward her. “You should know better than to sneak around in Val Royeaux if you are not serious about it.”

“On the contrary.” She pushes her hair behind her ears. A lock swings free regardless. “That is the best time to sneak. It feels less like work that way.”

An undignified, unladylike cough of disbelief issues from Josephine’s throat. One she does not acknowledge as belonging to her. Leliana’s eyes glint anyway and she smirks, one eyebrow hitching high on her forehead.

“You may choose not to believe me if you like, dear Josie.” Leliana sing-songs her reply, her voice birdlike, striking right at the center of Josephine’s melancholy. It has always felt like an honor to hear the Nightingale sing. And Josephine never takes it for granted. Despite the singing not adhering to what is understood to be a song by most people. The only downside is how much more alone she feels in response, a curious contradiction, and yet one she cannot deny.

Val Royeaux has not been the same without Leliana constantly afoot.

“I’m sure I’m _right_ to not believe you.”

Leliana’s smile softens into something warmer. “Your instinct is as keen as ever.”

“So what is it you want?” Josephine’s arms cross and she thinks, _be severe. This is Leliana. She will walk all over you if you give her an inch_. Not that, admittedly, Josephine has ever _minded_ Leliana’s penchant for drawing Josephine into her shenanigans. But she can never, never let Leliana in on this fact. She would abuse it terribly.

Leliana paces, stalking back and forth before Josephine with the grace of a cat. Her fingers press at her pursed lips as she weighs and measures Josephine in her mind’s eye. Whatever she finds, she finds it quickly, clasping her hands together behind her back. “Tell me, have you bored of Orlais? You seem unhappy here.”

“I am— _not_ ,” Josephine insists, scandalized. Her heart beats hard against her breast, in her temples, under the skin pulled tight across her wrists. “Who could bore of Orlais? Who could be unhappy in Orlais?”

“You,” Leliana says, pointed, “I think.”

“I am in the very center of the most powerful—”

“ _Josie_.” Leliana shakes her head, clucks her tongue. “Do be serious. You would not have chosen purple drapes if you cared to be here.”

Josephine opens her mouth to deny it. But the truth of the matter is this: she’d begun hiring a decorator some seasons ago. And has left the furnishing her apartment to her ever since. She sighs, glares at the floor, impotent anger welling inside of her. If she is this transparent to Leliana…

But no, she would only ever be that transparent _to_ Leliana. No one else could guess the truth so easily with so little evidence. In fact, she has only ever gotten effusive compliments from her visitors—and much admiration from the decorator, who now has more work than she knows what to do with.

“You want to go home, do you not?”

“ _No_.” But the lie turns to ashes, bitter on her tongue. “I return home a number of times per year to report to the king and the merchants of the city.”

“And each time, it gets harder and harder to leave, I would wager.” She stops her pacing mere feet from Josephine. And, reaching out, she brushes Josephine’s arm with her fingertips. “You needn’t lie to me.”

“It’s enough.” Josephine doesn’t resent the ease with which Leliana sees through her, but it’s a near thing. She slaps at Leliana’s hand; the slap turns into a grip. Her skin is as warm as she is and softer than Josephine remembers. The Nightingale once wore her callouses as a badge of pride. Now she must not need to use the skills that brought her such notoriety. Curious. “You don’t shoot much anymore.”

“Not so much as I’d like.”

“Nor handle knives?”

“No. My daggers are more circumspect these days. Others hold the daggers now.” She looks away. “The Left Hand of the Divine cannot be seen getting her hands dirty, though dirty them she must regardless.” She lifts her free hand, wiggles her fingers. “I did not know my hands could look so innocent.”

“It is a surprise.” Josephine cups the hand she still holds, inspects it gently. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Nothing,” she replies. “I feel no different.”

“You must feel something.” Josephine releases her. “Pride, at least. You are doing the Divine’s work.”

She shrugs and turns away by a minute degree. “Someone must.”

“Then I will be proud for you.” Josephine lowers her gaze, shy. “You look well.”

“The work suits me. Divine Justinia is—” Leliana sighs, girlish almost. “She is everything the Chantry should aspire to and more.”

Josephine feels mostly joy at the peculiar brand of peace Leliana has found, but a stab of _something_ fouls the purity of that emotion. It isn’t jealousy precisely.

 _Then…_ “Why did you come here?” Josephine asks, quiet, urging after an appropriate amount of time has passed and Leliana has said nothing more. This is no social call; they have established that in Josephine’s mind. But what it is Leliana wants…

It must be important.

And therefore Josephine must know.

“I wish to ask a favor of you, Josie,” Leliana admits after the barest hint of hesitation. And why it’s so hard for her, Josephine can’t guess. Worry gnaws at her gut, claws with unreasonable ferocity at her lungs and heart. They have never covered this sort of territory, she and Leliana. “A rather substantial one.”

“If it is within my power, I will do it.” Josephine knows better than to offer blanket promises like this. And yet she would do anything for Leliana. Even, probably, if it is _not_ within her power to accomplish. She would try anyway.

Leliana doesn’t need to know that either, though. There are many things better left mysterious.

“What is it, Leliana?” Josephine asks, pressing again when Leliana doesn’t answer immediately. Her worry twists on itself, doubling back and winding around a newly entrenched feeling of fear. Leliana has never been like this in all the time Josephine has known her.

Leliana sighs, impatient—probably with herself. Finally, finally, she asks, “What do you know about the Inquisition?”

“The same as everyone.” Perplexed and vaguely annoyed, Josephine pushes past her, not quite stomping toward her cupboards. Luckily her slippers only whisper across the floor and so mostly mask her pique. Searching for more candles gives her something to focus on besides Leliana vexatious mode of speaking. She proceeds to line the stout, fat ones on the counter Leliana recently vacated. Retrieving the already lit one, she sets each unlit wick aflame and disributes them around the kitchen.

This display, at least, loosens Leliana’s tongue. “How would you… you are bored here? Truly?”

“If I admit as much will you finally answer my question?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I am bored. It is dreary playing with all the same people for all the same reasons. Day in and day out. No one ever changes. And the only upsets occur when people die.” She peers at Leliana, trying and failing to gauge a reaction. “And even then, the status quo resumes itself inside of a week. It has grown tedious. And wearying. And not a little pointless.”

 _It felt like so much…_ more _when you were around_.

Leliana, at least, smiles at that and Josephine is gratified to see it. “In that case, might I extend an invitation to you, Lady Montilyet? To join our Inquisition?”

“You’re—I… _what_?” Josephine doesn’t do anything so undignified as sputter, but it’s a near thing. As her mind tries to catch up to Leliana’s request, she leans too close to one of the candles, the red, piercing heat only registering after a delay. Holding back a startled gasp, she jerks back and says, “ _Your_ Inquisition?”

Leliana likely notices the momentary slip of Josephine’s composure, but she makes no note of it, holds nothing of it against Josephine. Instead, thoughtful, she replies, “Mmm. Most Holy is concerned about the goings-on in Kirkwall. If the worst is to happen—”

“The worst being?”

Leliana’s eyebrow climbs her forehead. “War, most likely. Everywhere. Not just between lion-sigiled Orlesians.”

“Oh,” Josephine says, brushing at her chest and down her stomach, fingers catching on the silk fabric of her sash. “Wonderful.”

“Quite so.” Pursing her lips, Leliana steps toward Josephine and takes her hand, pressing lightly. “You can see why we could use a woman of your skill.”

“I don’t…” The urge to deny it nearly overwhelms her. She has cultivated nothing any other ambassador to Orlais has not also cultivated. Her skill with words and deeds is no better than anyone else’s. She could draw up a list in ten minutes of people better equipped to handle war-time diplomacy. _That is demonstrably false, Josephine. Admit you are frightened and move on._

Leliana, who knows her best of all, even better now than her own family for all that they have experienced together—life in Orlais brings that out in people, that sense of understanding—shakes her head and smiles sadly. “I trust _you_ , Josie. If we cannot have you, we will make do with no one.”

“That is preposterous!” She pulls out of Leliana’s grasp, doesn’t let herself regret that fact, and crosses her arms. Puts unwanted space between them. “You’re—impossible.”

“I am. That does not make it any less true.”

Josephine’s lips press together in displeasure. She already knows she will buckle, will throw her life away here on a whim for a cause not yet her own. Thoughts of her family break at the back of her mind, threaten to cross the rock wall designed to keep them from overwhelming the rest of her responsibilities. But she responds too slowly. Or Leliana is too desperate. Because it is Leliana who cracks first.

“Things may soon go very bad. Even in Val Royeaux.” Her gaze slips past Josephine. She doesn’t say it, but Josephine hears it anyway. _And Antiva will not remain out of harm’s way for long after that_.

How has this conversation gotten so far away from her? Moments ago, they were speaking of boredom. Now, the fate of Orlais and all of Thedas. But there is something… Josephine examines Leliana closely as she determines her own fate. If Josephine didn’t know her any better…

“You’re worried,” she says, flat, fishing for a response of any sort. A tactic for the inexperienced and the bold. Stranger things have happened, though, than retrieving the truth from such a gambit.

Leliana tilts her chin up, sniffs. “I am.” She then stares Josephine down, false in her determination. “For good reason.”

“And you believe…”

“I do.”

“Oh, Leliana.” Josephine’s hand brushes her forehead as she takes a deep breath. She could turn away, tell herself this isn’t important. There’s a stubborn streak inside of her that threatens to come out. Tells her to dig in her heels. She has committed to this work for Antiva and just because it’s boring… that doesn’t mean she should—just give up. It’s not in her nature. And yet…

Leliana has never been given to histrionics. _That_ is not in Leliana’s nature.

For anyone else, Josephine would be unable to throw caution to the wind and let it float in whichever direction fate chanced for it. No, if anyone else asked, Josephine would never give the possibility of doing so even an initial thought. She would play it safe—as safe as one could play it in Orlais anyway—and she would stay the course she has set for herself. She would comfort herself that her prudence will bear fruit.

The Inquisition? No, never. Find someone else, she would say, and she would not budge from that stance. Ever.

But for Leliana…

“Josie?”

For Leliana, Josephine finds she could do many things. And, of a sudden, the answer is easy. Despite her anxieties. Despite changes. Despite the precarious fate of the world. It is easy. “Very well, Leliana.

I will do this.” _For my home, for Thedas. Even for Orlais._

_For you._

_I will do this._

And when Leliana’s eyes widen with surprise and happiness and clear-as-water relief, Josephine cannot even regret the hastiness of her decision. Does not wonder what will happen to her family. Does not much care if this enterprise ends poorly.

That will come later, she is sure, for not even Leliana cannot wholly alter Josephine’s personality.

But for now? Seeing Leliana this way, doing this _for_ and _because of_ Leliana…?

She would not much care even if it was the wrong course to take with her life.


End file.
